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Часть текста: would be worthier of you — be worthier of a fine soul full of a holy dream, of live and limpid poetry, 8 of high thoughts and simplicity. But so be it. With partial hand take this collection of pied chapters: half droll, half sad, 12 plain-folk, ideal, the careless fruit of my amusements, insomnias, light inspirations, unripe and withered years, 16 the intellect's cold observations, and the heart's sorrowful remarks. CHAPTER ONE To live it hurries and to feel it hastes. Prince Vyazemski I “My uncle has most honest principles: when he was taken gravely ill, he forced one to respect him 4 and nothing better could invent. To others his example is a lesson; but, good God, what a bore to sit by a sick person day and night, not stirring 8 a step away! What base perfidiousness to entertain one half-alive, adjust for him his pillows, 12 sadly serve him his medicine, sigh — and think inwardly when will the devil take you?” II Thus a young scapegrace thought as with post horses in the dust he flew, by the most lofty will of Zeus 4 the heir of all his kin. Friends of Lyudmila and Ruslan! The hero of my novel, without preambles, forthwith, 8...
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Часть текста: in the sun, its doors open like wings, its front wheels deep in evergreen shrubbery. To the anatomical right of this car, on the trim turn of the lawn-slope, an old gentleman with a white mustache, well-dresseddouble-breasted gray suit, polka-dotted bow-tielay supine, his long legs together, like a death-size wax figure. I have to put the impact of an instantaneous vision into a sequence of words; their physical accumulation in the page impairs the actual flash, the sharp unity of impression: Rug-heap, car, old man-doll, Miss O.’s nurse running with a rustle, a half-empty tumbler in her hand, back to the screened porchwhere the propped-up, imprisoned, decrepit lady herself may be imagined screeching, but not loud enough to drown the rhythmical yaps of the Junk setter walking from group to groupfrom a bunch of neighbors already collected on the sidewalk, near the bit of checked stuff, and back to the car which he had finally run to earth, and then to another group on the lawn, consisting of Leslie, two policemen and a sturdy man with tortoise shell glasses. At this point, I should explain that the prompt appearance of the patrolmen, hardly more than a minute after the accident, was due to their having been ticketing the illegally parked cars in a cross lane two blocks down the grade; that the fellow with the glasses was Frederick Beale, Jr., driver of the Packard; that his 79-year-old father, whom the nurse had just watered on the green bank where he laya banked banker so to speakwas not in a dead faint, but was comfortably and methodically recovering from a mild heart attack or its possibility; and, finally, that the laprobe on the sidewalk (where she had so often pointed out to me with disapproval the crooked green cracks) concealed the mangled remains of Charlotte Humbert who had been knocked down and dragged several feet by the Beale car as she was hurrying across the street to drop three letters...
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Часть текста: о заблуждении, выдумке и — по созвучию — «туман» мистификации. См. также гл. 2, XXIX, 3. 7 Любовник Юлии Вольмар… — Неточность: фамилия Юлии была д'Этанж, а не Вольмар, когда она стала возлюбленной Сен-Пре (как ее подруга Клара д'Орб называет анонимного альтер-эго автора). Роман называется «Юлия, или Новая Элоиза», «письма двух любовников, живших в маленьком городке у подножия Альп, собраны и изданы Ж. -Ж. Руссо» (Amsterdam, 1761, 6 vols.). Юлия — blonde cendrée [447] (излюбленный цвет волос позднейших традиционных героинь, таких, например, как Клелия Конти в «Пармской обители» Стендаля, 1839), с нежными лазурно-голубыми глазами, каштановыми бровями, красивыми руками и восхитительным цветом лица, — дочь барона д'Этанжа, избивавшего ее (ч. I, письмо LXIII). Сен-Пре — частный учитель, «un petit bourgeois sans fortune» [448] . О его внешности нам мало что известно, за исключением того, что он близорук («la vue trop courte pour le service» [449] — ч. I, письмо XXXIV; прием, широко использовавшийся позднейшими авторами). Однажды ночью его ученица сознательно отдается ему, после чего заболевает оспой. Сен-Пре покидает Европу и проводит три или четыре года в абсолютно абстрактной Южной Америке. Его возвращение, супружеская жизнь Юлии и ее смерть занимают последнюю часть романа. Юлия выходит замуж за господина де Вольмара (имя изобретательно образовано от «Вальдемара»), польского дворянина пятидесяти лет, воспитанного то ли по небрежности, то ли по осмотрительности своего создателя в вере греческой («dans le culte greque»), a не римско-католической, как большинство поляков; проведя часть жизни в ссылке в Сибири, он позднее обращается в вольнодумство. Остается только гадать, как воспринимала Татьяна Ларина восхитительные примечания Руссо, касающиеся религиозных преследований, и эпитеты...
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Часть текста: began our extensive travels all over the States. To any other type of tourist accommodation I soon grew to prefer the Functional Motelclean, neat, safe nooks, ideal places for sleep, argument, reconciliation, insatiable illicit love. At first, in my dread of arousing suspicion, I would eagerly pay for both sections of one double unit, each containing a double bed. I wondered what type of foursome this arrangement was even intended for, since only a pharisaic parody of privacy could be attained by means of the incomplete partition dividing the cabin or room into two communicating love nests. By and by, the very possibilities that such honest promiscuity suggested (two young couples merrily swapping mates or a child shamming sleep to earwitness primal sonorities) made me bolder, and every now and then I would take a bed-and-cot or twin-bed cabin, a prison cell or paradise, with yellow window shades pulled down to create a morning illusion of Venice and sunshine when actually it was Pennsylvania and...
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Часть текста: «(...) мы решили однажды — вы, ваш муж и я, что неотшлифованный шедевр Пруста — это громадная бездушная сказка, навеянный спаржей сон, не имеющий абсолютно ничего общего с какими бы то ни было возможными людьми в исторической Франции, сексуальный travestissement и колоссальный фарс, словарь гения с его поэзией, но не более (как будет показано ниже, именно этот образный словарь послужит образцом для некоторых описаний у Набокова. — О. Р.); невозможно грубые хозяйки дома (...) и еще более грубые гости, механические скандалы под Достоевского, снобистические нюансы Толстого, повторяемые и растягиваемые до невыносимой длины, очаровательные морские виды, тающие аллеи (...) эффекты света и тени, соперничающие с величайшими английскими поэтами, цветение метафор, описанное — у Кокто, кажется, — как „мираж висячих садов“, и (...) абсурдный, резиново-проволочный роман между белокурым молодым подлецом (вымышленным Марселем) и неправдоподобной jeune fille с наклеенной грудью, толстой шеей, как у Вронского (и у Левина)(,) и купидо- новыми ягодицами вместо щек (...)» (Набоков 1983: 154). К мнению Кинбота о сексуальной травестийности прустовской коллизии и о проистекающей из нее художественной неудаче примыкает высказывание Вана в «Аде», поданное им как некий школьный тест, со ссылкой на мнение учителя французской словесности. Суть теста в том, что Ван, чтобы...
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Часть текста: me in Montreux to film an interview for the Bayeriscber Rundfunk. Of its many topics and themes I have selected a few for reproduction in this volume. The bit about my West European ancestors comes from a carefully executed and beautifully bound Ahnentafel, given me on my seventieth birthday by my German publisher Heinrich Maria Ledig-RowohIt. ON TIME AND ITS TEXTURE We can imagine all kinds of time, such as for example "applied time"-- time applied to events, which we measure by means of clocks and calendars; but those types of time are inevitably tainted by our notion of space, spatial succession, stretches and sections of space. When we speak of the "passage of time," we visualize an abstract river flowing through a generalized landscape. Applied time, measurable illusions of time, are useful for the purposes of historians or physicists, they do not interest me, and they did not interest my creature Van Veen in Part Four of my Ada. He and I in that book attempt to examine the essence of Time, not its lapse. Van mentions the possibility of being "an amateur of Time, an epicure of duration," of being able to delight sensually in the...
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Часть текста: Pushkin Chapter three CHAPTER THREE Elle était fille; elle était amoureuse. Malfilâtre I “Whither? Ah me, those poets!” “Good-by, Onegin. Time for me to leave.” “I do not hold you, but where do 4 you spend your evenings?” “At the Larins'.” “Now, that's a fine thing. Mercy, man — and you don't find it difficult thus every evening to kill time?” 8 “Not in the least.” “I cannot understand. From here I see what it is like: first — listen, am I right? — a simple Russian family, 12 a great solicitude for guests, jam, never-ending talk of rain, of flax, of cattle yard.” II “So far I do not see what's bad about it.” “Ah, but the boredom — that is bad, my friend.” “Your fashionable world I hate; 4 dearer to me is the domestic circle in which I...
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Часть текста: a displaced little person from France, was on the other hand a good example of a not strikingly beautiful child revealing to the perspicacious amateur some of the basic elements of nymphet charm, such as a perfect pubescent figure and lingering eyes and high cheekbones. Her glossy copper hair had Lolita’s silkiness, and the features of her delicate milky-white face with pink lips and silverfish eyelashes were less foxy than those of her likesthe great clan of intra-racial redheads; nor did she sport their green uniform but wore, as I remember her, a lot of black or cherry darka very smart black pullover, for instance, and high-heeled black shoes, and garnet-red fingernail polish. I spoke French to her (much to Lo’s disgust). The child’s tonalities were still admirably pure, but for school words and play words she resorted to current American and then a slight Brooklyn accent would crop up in her speech, which was amusing in a little Parisian who went to a select New England school with phoney British aspirations. Unfortunately, despite “that French kid’s uncle” being “a millionaire,” Lo dropped Eva for some reason before I had had time to enjoy in my modest way her fragrant presence in the Humbert open house. The reader knows what importance I attached to having a bevy of page girls, consolation prize nymphets, around my Lolita. For a while, I endeavored to interest my senses in Mona Dahl who was a good deal around, especially during the spring term when Lo and she got so enthusiastic about dramatics. I have often wondered what secrets outrageously treacherous Dolores Haze had imparted to Mona while blurting out to me by urgent and well-paid request various really incredible details concerning an affair that Mona...
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Часть текста: that Lolita used to be so fond of in the days of our carefree first journey; oh, how different things were now! I am not referring to Trapp or Trapps. After allwell, really… After all, gentlemen, it was becoming abundantly clear that all those identical detectives in prismatically changing cars were figments of my persecution mania, recurrent images based on coincidence and chance resemblance. Soyons logiques , crowed the cocky Gallic part of my brainand proceeded to rout the notion of a Lolita-maddened salesman or comedy gangster, with stooges, persecuting me, and hoaxing me, and otherwise taking riotous advantage of my strange relations with the law. I remember humming my panic away. I remember evolving even an explanation of the “Birdsley” telephone call… But if I could dismiss Trapp, as I had dismissed my convulsions on the lawn at Champion, I could do nothing with the anguish of knowing Lolita to be so tantalizingly, so miserably unattainable and beloved on the very even of a new era, when my alembics told me she should stop being a nymphet, stop torturing me. An additional, abominable, and perfectly gratuitous worry was lovingly prepared for me in Elphinstone. Lo had been dull and silent during the last laptwo hundred mountainous miles uncontaminated by smoke-gray sleuths or zigzagging zanies. She hardly glanced at the famous, oddly shaped, splendidly flushed rock which jutted above the mountains and had been the take-off for nirvana on the part of a temperamental show girl. The town was newly built, or rebuilt, on the flat floor of a seven-thousand-foot-high valley; it would soon bore Lo, I hoped, and we would spin on to California, to the Mexican border, to mythical bays, saguaro desserts, fatamorganas. Jos Lizzarrabengoa, as you remember, planned to take his Carmen to ...
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Часть текста: of mirror aslant and door ajar, a look on her face… that look I cannot exactly describe… an expression of helplessness so perfect that it seemed to grade into one of rather comfortable inanity just because this was the very limit of injustice and frustrationand every limit presupposes something beyond ithence the neutral illumination. And when you bear in mind that these were the raised eyebrows and parted lips of a child, you may better appreciate what depths of calculated carnality, what reflected despair, restrained me from falling at her dear feet and dissolving in human tears, and sacrificing my jealousy to whatever pleasure Lolita might hope to derive from mixing with dirty and dangerous children in an outside world that was real to her. And I have still other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, in a sunset-ending street of Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymphets to a concert and walking behind them so close as almost to touch them with my person), she turned to Eva, and so very serenely and seriously, in answer to something the other had said about its being better to die than hear Milton Pinski, some local schoolboy she knew, talk about music, my Lolita remarked: “You know, what’s so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own”; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did not know a thing about my darling’s mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichs, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gatedim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me, in my polluted rags and miserable convulsions; for I often noticed that living as we did, she and I, in a world of total evil, we would become strangely embarrassed whenever I tried to discuss...